Love Sincerely Yours

by Meghan Quinn

  reclined with my hands behind my head, eyes dragging across one ridiculous line after the

  other.

  What the shit is this?

  Did you know people around the office call you a sadist? An egomaniac? An

  insensitive, arrogant prick?

  Yeah, I fucking knew that, thank you very much.

  I’m not deaf, I’m not blind, and I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about the way I

  run my company. I am who I am, and no one is going to change me.

  And as long as we're being honest, that navy-blue suit you wear? With the crisp white

  shirt?

  I drag my hand down the lapels of said navy-blue suit—another meeting this afternoon

  requires it—my fingers straightening the starched collar of my dress shirt. Bright blue tie.

  I want to bang you so bad.

  My eyes dissect that little sentence; the cock in my pressed trousers stirs.

  Bang you so bad.

  Bang.

  Jesus Christ, this is not happening to me right now. I rake a hand through my hair, an exhausted breath expelling from my lugs. A few more

  lingering stares and I’m reaching forward, finger hitting the intercom button for Lauren’s

  desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Blackburn.”

  How many times have I asked her not to call me that?

  Dozens.

  “Can you come in here with a notebook? I need you to take a memo.”

  This email is so highly inappropriate, bordering on sexual harassment, it needs to be

  addressed company-wide. No. No bordering—it is. And if this has been sent to anyone else

  in this company, heads would roll.

  Heads will roll.

  Someone will get fired.

  I give the email address a hard stare. HandsRomingMyBody@RoamInc.com

  Not only is it unfamiliar, it’s bloody internal. Fabricated. Entirely sexual. Hands roming

  my body. Rome—not roam.

  And a familiar play on my first name.

  This is how companies get sued. The last thing I need is bad publicity because of a bad

  joke bankrupting my company.

  It only takes Lauren a few minutes to bustle into my office—attitude adjusted—thank

  fuck. She closes the door behind her and perches on a chair, just as she’s always done when

  she’s about to take dictation, iPad in hand ready.

  She closes the door behind her and perches on a chair, just as she’s always done when

  she’s about to take dictation, stylus poised about her iPad.

  “I need you to take a memo.” “Ready when you are, boss.”

  My eyes momentarily rake along my glaringly white computer monitor, nostrils flaring.

  I want to bang you so bad.

  Lips part. “Uh…”

  Lauren waits.

  I clear my throat. “I recently received a very disturbing email—”

  Lauren’s mouth falls open and she interrupts, leaning forward conspiratorially. Lowers

  her voice to a near whisper. “You did? Was it a bomb threat?”

  “No.” My lips press together. “As I was saying . . .” I give the iPad a glance. “I recently

  received a disturbing email, one that not only compromises several of this company’s

  policies, but also the integrity of Roam, Inc. as a whole.”

  Lauren’s eyes widen, but she keeps silent.

  I want to bang you so bad.

  I haven’t been banged in months.

  “Our integrity is being compromised,” I repeat.

  “You . . . just said that.”

  “I did?”

  “Well, not in those exact words but, yes. You’re being redundant.”

  “Clean it up for me, then. Shoot me the draft.”

  A quick nod. “Got it.”

  “As I was saying . . .” What the hell was I saying? My eyes won’t stray from that one

  fucking line—it’s both driving me crazy and pissing me off simultaneously. “As I was

  saying.”

  “As you were saying.” Lauren is biting back a grin. This is pointless. I can’t concentrate.

  “You know what? I’ll jot something down and get it back to you.”

  Now her grin is a full-blown smirk. “Sure.”

  Is it Lauren?

  No. I shake that thought out of my head. Definitely not Lauren. She has a boyfriend,

  doesn’t she? I should really pay attention to this shit more. No I shouldn’t, Goddammit—it’s

  not my job to know about anyone’s personal life once they’re gone for the day.

  My forefinger drums the desktop. “I’ll also need to speak to someone in IT. Can you

  send up the supervisor, uh . . .”

  I have no idea whose name to supply.

  Hunter was right—I do let human resources do most of the hiring and really need to be

  more handson so shit like doesn’t slip through the cracks. I have no fucking idea who is

  handling my technical department.

  “Vivian Taggert, sir.”

  Sir.

  I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Get me Mrs. Taggert this afternoon please.”

  “It’s Miss.”

  “What is?”

  “Miss Taggert is unmarried, sir. She’s single.”

  Jesus Christ, why is she telling me this? “I’m not interested in Miss Taggert’s marital

  status, Lauren. I need her intelligence.”

  And to give me a name. And to solve this fucking problem: who created this fake

  account?

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know when she’s available.” I need a fucking drink and it’s only nine in the morning.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER 5

  PEYTON

  Sweet.

  Jesus.

  What is that godforsaken sound? Make it stop. Please, someone, make it stop.

  “Gerrrrrrr,” I groan, rolling to my side, last night’s curls sticking to my face. “Stop the

  incessant ringing.”

  Face planted into my pillow, I shake my fist in the air, asking for help from the heavens

  above.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “I’m going to kill someone,” I grumble into my pillow. Last night’s alcohol breath hits

  me hard, tossing my head in the air, hair curtaining the sides like blinders.

  “Whoa, toothbrush, stat,” I say to no one in particular.

  Pounding out of control, my head throbs with every ring. Pound. Pound. Pound, tossing

  my stomach into unwanted somersaults. And just when I think the noise will never end . . .

  it does.

  “The Lord has risen,” I praise, sticking my head back into my pillow, a muffled

  hallelujah followed shortly after.

  Too much booze last night. Way too much. So much that I can’t remember a damn thing other than shoving two pieces of popcorn

  up my nose and snotrocketing them across the table into Gen’s drink.

  God . . .

  Welcome to thirty.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “Oh, for the love of God.” I lift my head trying to find the noise when I spot my phone

  on my nightstand.

  Who the hell is calling me?

  I reach over and attempt to yank my phone from the charging cord, but end up pulling

  the entire cord out of the socket. At least I had the sense to charge it last night.

  Pushing the accept button, I bring it to my ear and mumble, “What?”

  “Peyton?” Gen’s voice rings through the other side, worried. I don’t blame her, my

  “what” sounded like I grew a pair of balls overnight.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “Uh, did you call in sick today?”

  “What? No . . . what are you—�
��

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Oh Fuck! What time is it?” I scramble out of bed, my strapless dress pulled down on

  one side, exposing my right breast to any neighbor who might be looking through my

  windows. The phone cord dangles, hitting me in the stomach.

  “It’s . . . nine?”

  Oh no.

  Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Being late to work is not tolerated. It’s in the detailed and very well-laid-out employee

  handbook, and right now, I’m looking at being at least half an hour late.

  Running around my apartment, I strip down, not caring if anyone sees me naked at this

  point, and run to the bathroom where I turn on the faucet and start dousing my body in

  water, letting it cascade down to the tile floor, an impressive feat since I’m still on the

  phone.

  “Has anyone noticed?”

  “A few people asked where you were. I told them you were in the bathroom with tummy

  troubles.”

  “Jesus. Okay. I’ll be out in ten.”

  “Pey, we have to—”

  “Can’t talk, need to drag the dragon off my tongue that’s lighting up my breath. See you

  soon. Have coffee at my desk, I pray you.”

  I hang up and wet a washcloth, soaking it quickly and rubbing it all over my face. No

  time for anything else.

  I throw my hair up in a messy bun, dab my eyes with some mascara, and then put on

  the first thing I see in my closet.

  Headache or not, I need to be to work, NOW.

  ***

  “Holy hell, did you even look at yourself in the mirror?” Gen asks me, walking beside

  me with my cup of coffee as we make our way to my cubicle. “No. Why? Do I have bags under my eyes?” With my index finger, I dab under my eyes,

  bringing life back to my face. I looked in the mirror for a second, saw I resembled the day of

  the dead, and decided looking in the mirror wasn’t for me this morning.

  From Gen’s reaction, maybe I should have taken a second gander.

  Gen’s eyes widen, pure horror all over her face. “I think you should go to the bathroom.”

  I pause, scared not only from the way Gen is looking at me but from the way everyone

  around us can’t take their eyes off me.

  Swallowing hard, I ask, slightly panicked. “Is it bad?”

  Whispering from the side of her mouth, Gen says, “I’ve seen prettier women of the

  night.”

  Women of the night? What the . . .

  Is she talking about . . .

  Hookers?

  Shit.

  Taking a detour, we both head to the bathroom, Gen trailing closely behind as I duck

  my head, trying to avoid everyone’s stares.

  It can’t be that bad, right?

  When I turn the corner into the bathroom, the first thing I see in the reflection is the

  Working Girl costume I bought two years ago, a brown belt cinching the oversized suit

  dress to my waist.

  Horrified, I move my gaze to my face. A ripple of shock shoots up my spine when I take

  in last night’s lipstick smeared across my cheek, mascara dotted all over my cheekbones,

  and a fake eyelash plastered across my forehead.

  How the hell did I miss that? “Oh dear God, it looks like I fell asleep in a dumpster.”

  Cringing to the side, trying to shield her eyes from the hot mess in front of her, Gen

  says, “You’ve had better days, that’s for sure.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Burn that dress, first of all. I mean, where the hell did you find it?”

  “I don’t have anything else to wear, Gen.”

  Sizing me up, she taps her chin with her index finger, finally able to fully look at me, a

  look of disgust written all over her face.

  “Okay, well, I say for starters, we remove last night’s fake eyelash.” She plucks one from

  my forehead and tosses it in the trash. Eyes wide, I run my fingers along the skin there.

  “Then I think we go the whole True Lies route.”

  “True Lies route? What are you talking about?”

  “You know, when Jamie Lee Curtis’s character rips her dress to make it sexier and then

  throws a vase of water over her head to slick back her hair. Worked for her, might work for

  you.”

  Counting to ten and exhaling, I say, “That was a movie, and that dress was supposed to

  rip perfectly. This thing is made out of trench coat material, so we’ll need scissors to make it

  decent.”

  Gen nods. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. At least roll up the sleeves, douse your head

  in water, and do a tight bun at the top of your head. And for the love of God, wash your

  damn face.”

  Starting thirty off with a bang. It takes another ten minutes to make me look somewhat presentable before we’re both

  walking back to my cubicle, still drawing attention from coworkers. As if I’m on a parade

  float, I kindly nod and wave to those who choose to stare.

  Eat your hearts out. I won’t be here for much longer.

  Plopping into my chair, I fire up my computer and let out a labored breath. “That was a

  close one.” I halfheartedly laugh, looking around one more time to make sure the coast is

  clear. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have work to do?”

  Looking guilty as hell, Gen says, “Uh, do you happen to remember anything from last

  night?”

  I shake my pounding head and take a sip of the coffee Gen gave me . . . needing a refill

  stat.

  I think it’s best that we all forget about last night . . . and this morning.

  When my computer screen comes to life, I type in my password and open my email,

  thirty new ones popping up immediately. Ugh, can’t a girl catch a break?

  I casually look through the emails, not really paying attention to any of them as I talk.

  “Did I say something stupid to Kimberly? It’s not my fault she has a stick up her ass most of

  the time.”

  I continue to scan through the emails, one from Rome catching my attention. Oh goody!

  A memo.

  When he sends those, they’re usually juicy and full of pent-up tension.

  What kind of tension do we have in store for us today?

  Mentally twiddles fingers.

  “No, you didn’t offend Kimberly.” I point to the screen, ignoring Gen. “Did you read this one? It’s a memo from Rome, the

  big boss man himself.”

  She blushes. “Uh yeah, about that.”

  Last memo we got was about using copy machines for business . . . not pleasure.

  God, that was great. All the copy machines had to be washed down by a professional

  cleaning service due to high concern for sexual germs on the buttons.

  “We should read it.” I hope it’s about someone being caught for doing something

  massively inappropriate.

  “Peyton, wait.”

  “What?” I turn to face Gen who’s had a permanent cringe on her face since she greeted

  me. Growing concerned, I ask, “What’s going on?”

  She twists her hands together and says, “Remember how we were drunk?”

  “Yeah, the pounding in my head hasn’t let me forget that one.” I tap on my skull.

  “Do you happen to remember confessing your undying lust for . . .” Her voice trails off

  and with a guilty look, she leans forward, whispers quietly, “For Rome?”

  Say what now?

  Undying lust for Rome?

  I would never.

  I might have been drunk, but I wasn’t that—

  My eyes widen, mouth goes dry, a
sinking feeling of dread taking root in the pit of my

  stomach.

  Swedish fish shots.

  Lots of them.

  Three margaritas. Beer.

  Manhunting.

  Rome at the bar in a suit.

  His darkened gaze skipping over me.

  Irritation and desperation consuming me.

  Confessing about my crush . . . typing out that email on Gen’s iPad . . .

  HOLY SHIT. THE EMAIL.

  “Oh my hell.” I grip my head and spin back to my computer opening the memo

  immediately, clicking rapidly on my mouse until the damn thing pops up on my screen ten

  times. Multiplying with each click. “Stop it,” I yell at the computer as the final one pops up.

  I scan the contents of the memo, as my heart beats out of my chest.

  From: Rome Blackburn, President and CEO

  To: Roam Inc. employees

  Memorandum RE: Conduct

  Good morning. Attached you will find the employee handbook, an updated Section 7

  emphasizing inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Please watch your inbox. Miss

  Taggert, from IT, will be sending a brief inquiry today regarding Section 7 contents; all

  employees are required to re-sign/acknowledge the agreement regarding sexual

  harassment, boundaries, and fraternizing. And as a reminder, inappropriate

  conversations, instant message chats, and emails will not be tolerated—i.e., grounds for

  termination.

  The memo goes on. And on.

  “Do . . . do you think this has anything to do with that email I sent him last night?” I

  chew on my thumbnail nervously, a terrible habit I’ve always had. Gen rolls her eyes and hands me her phone. “Of course it was about your email,

  dumbass. I dare you to re-read the email you sent him last night. And try not to piss

  yourself.”

  Taking her phone, I focus my blurry eyes on the email in her sent folder and read,

  wanting to turtle in on myself with each sentence that stands out in my mind as utterly

  humiliating—which is most of them.

  I work for you.

  I have a hopeless, foolish crush on you when you are the last person on earth I should

  be crushing on.

  For once, I want you to look at me as more than one of your employees.

  I want to bang you so damn bad.

  I sink into my chair, the shoulder pads of my dress reaching my ears.

  “This is bad, isn’t it?”

  Still twisting her hands in her lap, Gen says, “Well, as long as they can’t trace it back to

  you, you’re good, which will be virtually impossible since we didn’t use your name.”